


the hunger artists

by orphan_account



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: 1990s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And this—this is where everything goes to shit, because if Ashton looks left, he’ll see a pretty girl with brown hair and big brown eyes that he could fall in love and spend the rest of his life with. He doesn’t, though, because he looks right instead, right at a tall, curly-haired blond boy leaning against the wall, his eyes startlingly blue against his grey features.Or, Ashton plays the drums in a 90s grunge band and Luke is teetering on the edge of oblivion.





	1. 1992

**Author's Note:**

> hello! so this fic was sort of inspired by the movie sid and nancy (although it's not really the same? apart from in ~theme~??) and, like every placebo song ever written. becos damn. each chapter will take place in a different year, starting from 1992 and onward chronologically.

[ ](http://lindoluke.tumblr.com/post/153457545131/the-hunger-artists-and-thisthis-is-where)

consuming alcohol  
while i gotta drive  
take a hit from the drugs you stole  
and try to survive

(pop song for us rejects, silverchair)

 

It’s not a fucking disaster from the very start.

They’re back in Sydney, crushed into a club too small to accommodate the tsunami of hysteria that comes with one of their songs playing on MTV. The place is packed, bodies spilling up onto the stage, no security in sight. Ashton watches the pandemonium unfold from behind his crooked drum kit; Calum swinging his bass around wildly, threatening to go hurtling over the edge of the stage, but never missing a chord, and Michael howling down the microphone, crouched down, fingers tugging at the hair of some guy in the crowd.

It’s like this every night; complete and utter madness, but Ashton stands from his uncomfortable little stool, grinning like a madman, deliriously content in the knowledge that it’s all about to get a whole lot worse. He throws his arms up as Calum tells the crowd to lose their fucking minds and Michael fucks around with his effect pedal. Then, with a quick glance back from each of them, Ashton drops down again, smacking the floor tom with about as much force as he can muster.

It's an angry, rough song about watching murder on the television as teenagers, written on the floor of Ashton’s basement four or so years ago. They put everything into it, just like they always do. They don’t do encores, so this is the last song, the lasting memory of everyone in the room.

Of course, just like always, it ends in chaos. It ends with the echo of bass and Michael launching his guitar straight at Ashton’s drum kit. The guitar, for the most part, is unharmed, but Ashton’s cymbals crash to the ground, and soon his entire kit is a mess, hit by the full force of Calum diving into it. Ashton pauses to help Calum up before putting his foot through the front of his bass drum. Remembering Ashton’s request to destroy his shitty old kit so their new record label would get him a new one, Calum joins in, picking up the snare and hurling it to the opposite side of the stage, careful to avoid Michael, who’s currently emptying half-drank bottles of beer onto the crowd.

Ashton stumbles to the front of the stage, marvelling at the change in perspective before taking a one-man bow and throwing a few sticks into the mass of people, aiming for no one. They move like a swarm, pressing forward, catching one last glimpse until the three of them disappear.

It’s a hometown gig, so they don’t bundle themselves into their van straightaway. Instead, high on adrenaline and alcohol, they agree to go out and get wasted. It’s a unanimous decision that Ashton doesn’t usually partake in, but tonight is different; tonight his chest is alight with the feeling of being alive.

The bar they end up in is neither stylish nor rock ’n’ roll, but way back when no one wanted to hear their shitty music, before they ever sold out a gig or had their song on the radio, the owner of the bar gave them a gig. They weren’t brilliant, and the punters fucking hated them, but the owner invited them back, time and time again, until they got too big for the tiny stage on the basement floor. Ashton’s grateful for it—they all are—so they’re loyal. This is what it always comes back to. Fucking loyalty.

Ashton loses the boys quickly, more interested in the sweaty bodies on the dancefloor than the alcohol pulsing through his veins.

It’s easy, he’s found, to get who he wants. He’s a drummer in a band shaking the foundations of an industry’s snobbery, spitting and slurring on the radio between pretty boys synchronised dancing in white suits. He’s the nice, open one that speaks politely when cameras and microphones are shoved in their faces, deceptively charming beneath the ripped t-shirts, leather jackets and occasional moment of madness on stage. He’s handsome, too, he knows and will gladly admit, running a hand through his hair and surveying the room.

And this—this is where everything goes to shit, because if Ashton looks left, he’ll see a pretty girl with brown hair and big brown eyes that he could fall in love and spend the rest of his life with. He doesn’t, though, because he looks right instead, right at a tall, curly-haired blond boy leaning against the wall, his eyes startlingly blue against his grey features. The collar of his leather jacket is upturned, grazing his cheekbones, and his jeans are more holes than denim, exposing the milky white of his legs. He’s pretty in a dirty sort of way, Ashton thinks—or maybe that’s the problem, he _doesn’t_ think, just saunters over to the boy, fuelled by his own self-importance and a few cans of Fosters.

Ashton, despite his aforementioned charm, is not immune from the perils of awkward conversation. Despite this, his confidence refuses to wane as he leans against the wall beside the boy, his chest close to brushing against his arm. He’s even taller and broader up close, but there is something about him that prevents him from filling the space he takes up, as though this body is new to him, out of his control. His eyes are different, however; he is in complete control them, flicking his gaze up and down Ashton’s body before ultimately settling on his eyes.

“Being a bit presumptuous, aren’t you?” the boy says, moving his own body, sliding down the wall and sticking his crotch out a little more. If he’s trying to be seductive, it’s working.

And Ashton—Ashton isn’t expecting that, but he doesn’t let it unsettle him. “What am I presuming?” he asks, playing dumb.

The boy rolls his head towards Ashton, face now a little below level with his. His eyes rake over Ashton once again, his teeth coming down to sink into his bottom lip. “That just because you’re some big rockstar, I’m going to put out for you.”

Ashton swallows, blinking fast, but he regains his composure after a moment. He raises an arm, rests it on the wall, crowding the boy in though the illusion would be shattered should he slide back up to full height. “And would you?”

The boy nods a little, smirking as he does. “Only because I like your music.”

That’s it—that’s all the flattery it takes. Ashton doesn’t even know the name of the boy he tugs by the sleeve of his jacket out of the bar and into the breezy late-August night air, not until he’s tangled up in him, hands on his waist and head aching faintly from the force the boy shoves him back against a cold wall. It’s only then, just as Ashton is about to say something like _we can’t do this here_ , the boy mumbles his name. Luke. _Luke_ , he says, _call me Luke_ as he presses saccharine, cologne-flavoured kisses to Ashton’s neck before pulling away, muttering something about a taxi rank.

They’re not allowed to fuck in the van—Ashton is the one who introduced this rule having seen a little too much of Calum and his ex-girlfriend one time and he’s not surprised at all that it’s come back to bite him on the ass—and Ashton doesn’t have a hotel booked, so they take a taxi to Luke’s apartment. He’s fine with that, really, hands roaming over Luke in the cramped backseat of the taxi, trying to stay as quiet as he can as the heel of Luke’s palm presses down on his groin.

“Never fucked a rockstar before,” Luke mumbles against Ashton’s lips, tugging him by the lapels of his jacket as they climb the stairs to Luke’s apartment.

Ashton, for his part, moans into Luke’s mouth, his fingers clamping down around the other boy’s forearms. He thinks about saying, _I’ve never fucked such a pretty boy before_ , but it sounds dumb echoing around in his head, and he really doesn’t want Luke to laugh at him now so he keeps his mouth shut.  

It’s a little awkward, but they eventually reach his front door without major injury, and this is when Ashton takes the opportunity to plaster himself against Luke’s back as he fumbles with his keys, grinding his crotch against the taller boy’s arse. An arm comes and hooks around his neck a moment later, bringing his head forward on Luke’s shoulder, keeping him close, keeping him tight against Luke’s body.

Once inside, the door locked behind them, Luke pulls Ashton through his tiny apartment, giving him no time to adjust to his surroundings. Ashton doesn’t particularly care; all he cares about, in that moment, is getting laid.

Luke’s bedroom is a mess. There’s no furniture, not even a cupboard or bedframe, but for a small bedside drawer with a lamp without a shade balanced precariously at the corner. Ashton, though, who has slept in their shitty little van and countless peoples’ floors over the last five years, doesn’t really feel like he can critique the boy’s interior design choices—not that it fucking matters what his bedroom looks like.

Ashton feels like a clumsy child when he can’t get his jeans off, but then Luke pushes him down onto the haphazardly made mattress on the floor and leans over him, rubbing his stubbly cheeks against the crook of Ashton’s neck before pulling Ashton’s t-shirt off and proceeding down the front of his chest. He leaves a glistening wet trail down the centre of Ashton’s chest but takes the scenic route across his stomach, sucking on the hard muscle Ashton is perversely proud of in that moment.

“Fuck,” Ashton breathes, lifting his hips off the mattress, letting Luke tug his jeans the rest of the way off.

“I was there, by the way,” Luke says casually, moving back to slip his own jeans—considerably less tight, Ashton notes for future reference—off and throw them across the room. “At the show. You guys were fucking awesome.” 

More fucking flattery. Ashton eats it up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Luke says, lying forward, resting his cheek on Ashton’s thigh and bringing a hand up to palm him through his boxers. “Best show I’ve ever seen.”

Then it’s Luke that’s lifting Ashton’s hips to discard his last remaining article of clothing, immediately flicking his tongue across the head of his cock and smiling up at him as his stubble tickles the inner part of his thighs and mirror-image diamonds twinkle in the centre of his eyes. Ashton can’t look for long, though, because, _fuck_ , Luke is good at this and he’s thankful for the forearm Luke presses against his stomach to keep him from thrusting forward and putting even more of his cock into his mouth, if it’s possible. And fuck, it is possible, because after a while he takes him in all the way—no mean feat, Ashton will hastily point out—his mouth tight and hot and Jesus he’s going to suffocate.

Luke proceeds, brutal and professional, before pulling off and letting go to lick from the base slowly up, not stopping after the head, making his way back up Ashton’s stomach, chest, throat. He hovers over Ashton, mouth pink and wet, spit glistening in the slightly longer hairs of his beard. Ashton lifts his hands, previously fisted in the limp sheets, to glide over Luke’s spine, just to make sure the boy is real.

“Ever fucked to your own music?”

He shakes his head. He hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about it. He always thought it might come across as a little narcissistic—plus, does he really want to hear Calum and Michael singing about doing drugs, teenage angst and capitalism while he’s trying to fuck someone? It’s hardly ideal.

“Want to?” Luke asks, his mouth against Ashton’s ear. “I think I’d be hot.”

Who is Ashton to disagree? He nods, but instantly regrets it when Luke leans away from him, reaching over to a pile of cassettes scattered by a radio cassette player. To a musician like himself, there’s something sacrilegious about the entire scene, but Ashton supposes after smashing the shit out of his drum kit, he can’t really talk, no matter his ulterior motive for doing so. He’s going to musician hell for that one.

“ _The Hunger Artists_ or _ShakeShakeQuiver_?” Luke asks, twisting back to look at Ashton, holding each cassette up.

Ashton is distracted for a moment, his hands moving to settle on Luke’s clothed backside. He squeezes his arse gently, admiring the way it’s just a tad too big for his hands to properly grip. He kneads down on the flesh, and grins when Luke moans and pushes back into his hands.

“ _Shake_ ,” he answers and laughs when Luke begins to shake his bum a little.

As the first dour notes of _Recalcitrant_ fill the stagnant air, Luke moves over Ashton to the small bedside table and yanks open the stiff drawer, almost sending the lamp crashing to the ground. He turns it on a moment later, filling the room with a piercing light, stunning and blinding them both.

“Here,” Luke says, throwing a strip of condoms at Ashton.

“Now who’s being presumptuous,” Ashton mutters under his breath, but quietly he’s thankful that he didn’t have to bring it up on his own. He still has fucking nightmares about that Grim Reaper commercial that came out when he was sixteen, and when Freddie Mercury passed away last year, well—even the immortal can be taken, so Ashton doesn’t take any fucking chances.

Beside him, Luke continues to rummage through his drawer until he pulls out a small bottle. Ashton can’t see exactly what it is in a halo of yellow light, but when Luke unscrews the top and inhales it deeply through his nose, he has a pretty good idea of what it is. Ashton isn’t against poppers, he just doesn’t need them to have a good time. Everyone has their own poison.

“Feel my heart,” Luke suddenly says, straddling Ashton’s lap and grabbing one of his hands, placing it on his chest. Beneath his warm skin, Ashton feels the pace of Luke’s heart quicken rapidly, the beating almost audible between the short pause between songs playing in the background. “Fuck,” Luke breathes, rocking himself against Ashton’s cock, keeping his hand in place. “Feels good.”

“Do you want me to…” Ashton drags his fingers along the mattress, feeling instead of looking for the little bottle of lube Luke had dropped there. Just as he grasps it, Luke leans down again, suffocating him with another kiss, and the sharp tang of blood wells in Ashton’s mouth. Too much teeth and not enough care goes into the kiss, but Ashton nips Luke’s lips in retaliation and pushes his boxers down, says, “Lie down, pretty boy.”

Luke needs no further invitation, even helps Ashton up before manoeuvring around him, dropping down onto his back and spreading his obscenely long legs.

Ashton likes that. It turns him on. Confidence turns him on, he thinks, keeping his eyes on Luke as he drizzles lube onto his fingers. Luke’s bottom lip is caught beneath his teeth again as he cranes his neck to look, slipping his hands behind his thighs, pulling them up.

He goes slow at first, despite Luke’s protests, but it doesn’t take all that long for Luke’s body to open to him, his muscles completely relaxed. He adds another finger, then two, and each time Luke pushes back, head thrown back against the pillow, goose bumps rippling across his skin though he’s still warm. “That’s enough, I can take it now,” he keeps repeating, thrusting upwards when Ashton wraps a large hand around his cock to slowly jerk him off. “I’m ready, you bastard.”

“You into name-calling?” Ashton teases, slowly retracting his fingers and wiping the wetness across Luke’s soft stomach. It’s not some show of degradation, he just reasons that he’s bound to make a mess on his stomach anyway.

“Fuck off,” he laughs, then pauses, head turning to the side. “This is my favourite song,” he says. “Come on, hurry up, fuck me through it.”

The thing is, Ashton would hurry up, but condoms are notoriously tricky to open, especially when your fingers have been covered in lube and you’re not exactly sober. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding back the cry of joy from his lungs when he eventually gets the wrapper open and slides it on himself.

He slides into Luke, gnashing his teeth and trying to ignore Michael's voice in his ear, shouting some angsty teenage bullshit he’s too old to really remember. The heels of his palms rest above Luke’s hipbones, and his long fingers spread easy, creating swirling rose-patterned bruises Luke encourages, the same bruises Luke will hide but marvel at tomorrow when he is alone and nobody can see. They settle into a blistering rhythm, neither one able to keep up, the pace too erratic. One hand strays to Luke’s cock, already dripping, and the other’s nails dig into the pallid muscle of his thigh.

He slows down a little when the song ends, but Luke looks like he might punch him if he doesn’t pick up the pace again, and being punched isn’t something Ashton—or anyone, he hopes—is into.

“You good?” Ashton asks but receives no answer, just the indelicate rustling of sheets as long, long legs wrap themselves around a classically sculpted waist and the mellower beginning of _Hard Love_ filters across the room. This is nice, Ashton thinks, biting his lip, almost shaking, Luke’s ankles locking around the small of his back. He could do this again.

At this point—at this point Ashton is completely fucking done, stuttering and slowing, sheer exhaustion from the show catching up with him. He tries, eyes on the intense delirium etched into Luke’s still grey facial features, to keep it up, be good for Luke. He’s an entertainer, a people pleaser when he wants to be, and he will not have his reputation tarnished by yielding to fatigue before he gets this boy off. It’s a pride thing, too, he supposes, giving Luke a little more control, allowing him to move back freely onto him.

And Luke—Luke is sweating from every pore, almost shaking from the pleasure. He reaches around, grabs Ashton’s arse and forces him forward, dictating the pace, bringing him deeper each time. “Fuck,” he swears. “Ash, Ash, I’m gonna—” He cuts himself off with a groan, body convulsing. He comes over his own stomach, Ashton’s fist. “Oh fuck,” he manages, flopping back like a broken marionette, his arms and legs suddenly weak to gravity. “You can keep going,” he tells Ashton, catching his breath.

He can’t, though—or, well, he doesn’t need to, because he’s so fucking close that it hurts. He pulls out as gently as possible, rolls off the condom and cries out when Luke reaches for him, tightening his grip around his cock. It takes three, maybe even four pumps of his fist to come, finally, shuddering as he does.

“Come here,” Luke says, wanting Ashton close. It’s a sticky, awkward cuddle, but Ashton is far, far too exhausted to protest or moan. He lets his entire body weight rest on the boy, convinced he can take it without discomfort, and slides their legs together. “That was so good,” Luke says, slightly more alert still, hands coming up to play with Ashton’s hair. “Fucking fantastic.”

Ashton moves—unwillingly, of course—so his head rests on Luke’s chest. “I’m glad you like my music,” he says, stroking Luke’s shoulder.

It's all a fucking disaster from there. 


	2. 1993

Ashton is sixteen years old when he falls in love for the first time.

It’s a good story, if not an overwhelmingly exciting one. He’s flicking through some second-hand records, looking for something, anything, a little bit different, when a cover catches his attention. It’s simple, effective, just what he’s been looking for; a black sheep running from the heard, drawn lazily in crayon in the bottom left-hand corner. MINOR THREAT is written in large, messy, bold letters in the top corner, half-hidden by a peeling price sticker, and Ashton needs no further convincing.

He forks out a measly three dollars and takes it home in the pouring rain, hiding it under his parka, the only dry place on his body. He doesn’t waste any time before putting it on the record player, but does so carefully, checking the vinyl for dust and setting the needle down gently. In the short moment it takes for the record to start, he throws himself onto his own creaky, narrow bed and tucks his hands under his head, staring at the ceiling.

What happens next is monumental, because Ashton doesn’t just fall in love with a record or a band or a genre or a subculture, he falls in love with an art form. He falls in love with the idea of something—something greater, something more profound. Something happens. Something _clicks_.

Something clicks into place when he’s with Luke. It’s really fucking dumb, and Ashton scolds himself when he catches himself thinking about it, but it’s true. Something does click, like they’re soulmates or something. He knows it’s all bullshit—or, well, he believes it to be bullshit—but it’s a tough thought to shake when he’s half the world away from the boy, slowly descending into a claustrophobic delirium as he listens over and over again to Calum strum the same three cords on an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. He’s got half a mind to go and wrench it from the younger boy’s grasp, but he stays put on the opposite sofa, tapping his pen against a blank page of his notepad.

They’re in LA to write and record their new album. Ashton, of course, would rather be in Sydney, but there’s a brand new Gretsch drum kit sitting in the recording studio, and Ashton is not morally above material concessions.

It’s not Luke, though. He wants Luke there with him, lounging around in the fancy hotel their label puts them up in, doing and saying nothing, only aware of each other when one of them shifts, bare skin grazing bare skin, or Ashton begins to snore, exhausted. It doesn’t happen often, because usually days and nights with Luke are played on fast-forward, one-hundred miles per hour, leaving Ashton no time to catch his breath—but sometimes, sometimes things are calm, slow, tender. Luke will take his hands, kiss his knuckles and then settle against his chest to tell him about his day at university, the Ramones playing quietly in the background.

That’s what Ashton wants—and he gets it, a week or two later, unceremoniously drawn out of his sleep by a knocking at the door. He doesn’t move too quickly at first, taking his time, grumbling, making plans to make Calum or Michael’s life fucking miserable if they’ve woken him up at this time for no good reason. He pads across the room, yanks open the door, ready with a _what the fuck do you want, asshole?_

But it’s not Michael or Calum or some random asshole Ashton doesn’t want to see, it’s Luke.

“Babe,” he says before he can stop himself, gripping Luke by the front of his jacket and tugging him into a hug. “I fucking missed you, man.”

He half expects Luke to make fun of him, say something crude like, _you just missed my tight, hot_ — “Missed you, too,” he mumbles into Ashton’s bare shoulder, fingers curling into the flesh of his back, clinging on tightly.

He does the same back, wrapping himself around Luke, but remains acutely aware that the door is open, exposing them to the outside world. “Come here, babe,” he ushers, not bothering to resist the endearment from slipping out. Luke seems to like it, anyway, keening happily at the word as he allows Ashton to drag him forward, kicking the door shut behind him.

Luke lands on top of Ashton, momentarily knocking the air from his lungs, but he doesn’t give him any time to recover before he’s pulling at his pyjama bottoms and licking and biting his way into his mouth. It’s an unfair situation, of course, because Ashton is naked and Luke is fully clothed, and yet Ashton doesn’t feel the vulnerability he probably should, exposed and caught beneath Luke. Luke fixes this in slow motion, making a proper show of it, knowing with every twist and bend of his body that Ashton can’t fucking take it.

Like this, with no light but the night through the blinds, Luke’s ankles stretch over Ashton's shoulders, and Luke's eyes drift closed as his lip bleeds under white teeth and suppressed groans, and his hips set their pace. The feel of bone crushing bone and Ashton’s hips against Luke’s arse are foreign for a bit but not quite; it’s the same but no, it isn’t, because Ashton isn’t quite like anybody else. Not on stage, not when speaking, not when smiling, and not when fucking Luke harder than anyone has ever dared. Luke’s certain it’s harsher when he comes in Ashton’s hand, blue-lipped and red-faced like some sort of sick vision of the future. They both are numb, seeing stars, and hot in one another’s arms for a moment, a fight between lovers kicking off somewhere through the ceiling. 

“I missed you,” Ashton repeats once again, tracing a line down Luke’s spine. “I’m glad you came.”

Luke hums in response, completely fucked but completely awake. He slips off Ashton a little but leaves an arm and a leg over him, reaches up and cards his fingers through his shorter hair. “I like it,” he says, giving it a short, sharp tug. Ashton, silently, enjoys the roughness of his touch.

It’s not just about the sex—which is pretty fucking fantastic, Ashton will unashamedly admit—because both of them can get that from anywhere and it’s not like Ashton couldn’t find someone who gives better head or moans louder or kisses him like he’s not about to fucking die. Luke gets Ashton. Gets what he wants and what he needs and says the right thing at the right time. Ashton’s world has gone completely fucking mad and Luke _gets it_.

When he wakes up the next day, well into the afternoon, Ashton thinks it’s all been a dream. He’s alone again, no body beneath, above or beside him, at least not for as far as he can stretch his arms and splay his fingers. He whines, distressed, but immediately sits up when a soft, patronising chuckle floats through the stuffy air from the dresser. _He’s here_ , Ashton thinks, sliding up against the headboard to watch Luke slick back his loose golden waves, leaning towards the mirror on the wall, inspecting the shadowed semicircles under his eyes.

“Jetlag,” Luke says simply, catching Ashton’s concern in the reflection, before plucking a pair of sunglasses off the surface of the dresser and putting them on. He admires himself in the mirror for a moment before removing them again, turning to Ashton. “Calum and Michael came around earlier.”

Ashton groans, tilting his head up and rubbing his hands across his face. He’s supposed to be at the studio. “When?”

“Around half eleven,” Luke replies, grabbing a pair of jeans from the floor and tugging them on. “You looked so peaceful, so I told them to fuck off,” he adds with a smile, digging into the pocket and pulling out a lighter and crumpled packet of cigarettes.  

Ashton can only imagine how that went down. Calum, for the most part, is pretty neutral on Luke, but he’s pretty fucking excessive when it comes to making music, so he won’t be happy with Ashton when they next see each other. Michael, on the other hand, has taken an instant disliking to Luke, seemingly for no reason, but Michael’s like that sometimes. It doesn’t bother Ashton all that much; he’s hasn’t exactly loved all their girlfriends in the past either, but sometimes he fears Luke will take it personally when Michael purposely ignores him and Calum awkwardly insists that he can’t hear any of their new music.

“What’d they say?” Ashton asks, following Luke around the room with his eyes until he sits on the other side of the bed. Without needing to be asked, he passes the glass ashtray, resting unused on Ashton’s bedside table, over to Luke.

Luke lights a cigarette, muttering a quiet thank you. “Just that they were going without you,” he answers, tapping the ash from his cigarette on the rim of the ashtray that he’s balanced on his stomach. Ashton likes Luke’s stomach. He likes his little tummy rolls when he sits and the gentle way it quivers when he’s sucking his cock.

In fear of losing his front teeth, Ashton decides he’d be better avoiding Michael and Calum for a little while longer—not that he ever contemplated leaving Luke here by himself. He’s got him here, albeit briefly, and he’s not going to waste it, new record be damned.

“We should go out,” Luke suggests a little while later. They’re in the cramped bathroom, showering together. Luke is behind Ashton, melting into his back, arms tight around his chest. When he speaks, it’s low and hot in his ear. “Have a little fun.”

It’s hard to say no to Luke, which is why Ashton finds himself in quite possibly the gayest nightclub he’s ever been to. There’s glitter and rainbows and half-naked men _everywhere_ , like the whole fucking Mardi Gras parade from back home crammed into one dark room. Ashton isn’t really one for nightclubs—he prefers bars or music clubs, real punk rock music to the house and cheesy pop shit they’ve got pulsing through the speakers—but Luke is in his element, dragging Ashton to the dancefloor without even a glance at the bar.

Ashton’s never been overtly uncomfortable with his sexuality, which is weird, really, because his entire adolescence was bombarded with primarily young gay men dying of AIDS, but he’s smart enough to know that one does not necessarily lead to the other. So, he is comfortable with himself and his bisexuality, content to let other people think as they like because _fuck those assholes_ , but that doesn’t mean he expresses it too often. He’s only ever been to one Mardi Gras parade, only ever been to a handful of gay bars before—and usually not for very long. He doesn’t talk about it, either, nor does he ask Michael and Calum to write gender-neutral lyrics—they just do.

“Here,” Ashton whips around to the sound of Luke’s voice, not even aware that he’d been gone. In his open palm is two small, white pills. “Come on, Ash, open up,” Luke says, lifting his hand.

“What is it?” he asks, catching Luke by the wrist.

“E,” Luke replies brightly.

Ashton’s done plenty of drugs before—hell, they recorded most of their last album out of their fucking arses on codeine—but he’s never tried ecstasy. Regardless, he swallows the bitter pill with very little trepidation and washes it down with the water Luke quickly shoves in his direction. He’s a little disappointed when nothing happens as he watches Luke do the same thing, though making slightly more of a show of it, making Ashton place the little pills on his outstretched tongue.

They’re moving together in amongst a growing throng of people on the dancefloor when Ashton is hit with the most pleasant, passing nausea. It leaves him feeling weightless, at one with the music, more so than he’s ever felt on stage. His dance moves get bigger, bouncier, and he laughs as Luke bounces with him, long limbs loose and limber until they wrap around him, cuddling him close. 

They stay like this until Ashton hears the familiar opening beats of _Personal Jesus_. Ashton fucking _loves_ Depeche Mode. He loves the synth, the deceptively dark lyrics beneath poppy tunes. He loves Dave Gahan, too, has the biggest fucking crush on him even now, at thirty, tattooed, long-haired and off his face on cocaine and heroin, on a one-way road to self-destruction. He remembers seeing his face on television for the first time, sweet and charming, lips pouty and red, and concluding he had a thing for pretty boys.

Pretty boys that wreck themselves, as it turns out.

“I fucking love this song!” he announces to anyone listening, but mainly to Luke, who entwines their fingers as they dance, neatly fitting them together.

Soon Ashton is pressing the solid line of his body against Luke, so close they might meld together. Luke glides his hands down Ashton’s back, grabbing his arse roughly through the thick denim of his jeans and pulling him closer, moving against him, moving with him. Ashton drops his head, biting his lip, and lets Luke take the lead, holding on like he's helpless to do anything else. Ashton's own hands grip to Luke’s sides, fingertips slipping past the soft cotton of Luke’s shirt every now and again with the rocks and shifts of their bodies, exposing a shock of bare light skin. Luke's eyes never leave his, dark and bottomless, showing a need Ashton is hyper aware of, revealing himself completely.

Ashton gets hard after a while, firm against Luke's thigh. Mind whirling, he wants to go back to the hotel, maybe blow Luke in the bathroom before they go, just to make him feel good.

And that’s exactly what happens.

Ashton can still taste Luke in his mouth as they fumble around in the street, serotonin continuing to flood their brains, cushioning their thoughts with a heightened sense of euphoria. It’s deserted outside, pitch black in the early hours of the morning, a little world of their own. It makes Ashton want to write a song—one of those cheesy, overdone songs about love and all that shit. Maybe he will, he thinks, tugging on Luke’s thin shirt. It’s fucking freezing but neither of them are cold. Yeah. He’ll do that.

Song writing is tough as shit, though, as it turns out, which is why, instead of a song, Ashton begins to write a list: _Things Ashton loves about Luke._

_great fuck_  
_passionate_  
_great taste in music_  
_prettiest fucking eyes_  
_great sense of humour_  
_amazing legs_  
_kinda shy in a cute way_  
_not a fucking dick_  
_best arse ever_  
_can have intelligent conversations_

Ashton writes on a small piece of paper ripped from a notepad by the phone. His writing is sloppy, his hands shaking slightly from an underlying adrenaline, but Luke can read it just fine where he lies on top of Ashton, who’s flat on his stomach on the bed. He giggles at the cruder additions, but buries his face in the damp nape of Ashton’s neck at others, asking if it’s true, does Ashton really love that about him?

“Of course,” he answers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love you.”

And that’s it—that’s when things officially go to shit, for real this time, because now, now they’re fucking _in love_ with each other. What a fucking shame something like this had to happen.

“I love you, too,” Luke says, sealing their fate. He shifts off Ashton and reaches out to cup his face in his hands. “Love you,” he repeats, pressing a tobacco-tinged kiss to Ashton’s lips.

As he does this, Ashton, carding his fingers through the limp waves of Luke’s blond hair as they kiss, will be hit with the most dangerous thoughts of making love to Luke, right there and then, taking it slow and caressing him gently. He’s in love, so of course he wants nothing more, but instead he shifts them back against the pillows, never breaking contact. For a while Ashton just keeps kissing Luke, tracing patterns and drumming tender beats along the ridges of his spine as Luke rubs their legs together, fingers clutching onto Ashton’s shoulders.

In the end, it’s Luke that moves in slow, subtle movements, coming to rest on top of Ashton again, and he’ll be there when Ashton wakes up in the morning, grouchy and despondent from coming down from his high and very little sleep. It’s fine, though, because he’s in love.

What he doesn’t know, however, is how suffocating love really is, like a hand around a throat or a belt pulled tight around a bicep, encouraging protruding veins. It’s a lethal mix, love. _They’re_ a lethal mix. He doesn’t know that. Luke doesn’t even fucking know that. What happens next isn’t anybody’s fault, but _God_ if they had just not fallen in love.


	3. 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit different. mainly because i'm a music geek & i wanted calum and michael in it more.

**THE HUNGER ARTISTS: ALL GROWN UP**

_Aussie punks The Hunger Artists abandon their grunge-by-numbers approach in favour of a more sophisticated, heartfelt sound._

Ghent—

In Franz Kafka’s _A Hunger Artist_ , the physical separation of the hunger artist and the crowd mirrors the spiritual separation of the individual artistic ego and public will. This gap in mindset leads to a critical gap in understanding. Set apart from others, only the hunger artist realizes the importance of his desires and accomplishments, and only he knows that he is not cheating when the spectators accuse him of breaking his fast. The further the hunger artist goes in pursuit of perfection, the further away he moves from the understanding of the people for whom he performs. The artist will always be separated from society because the qualities that distinguish him as an ‘artist’ and are worth preserving are the ones that ensure he will never be understood.

It’s nothing new that artists suffer for their craft only to be misunderstood and unappreciated in their time. Musicians are told what and how to perform in order to be as appealing to as broad an audience as possible. Marketing drives art and in doing so makes a lie and mockery of the artist. And it’s not just pop music. Ever since Nirvana, Jane’s Addiction and Sonic Youth unwittingly dragged the underground kicking and screaming into the mainstream, punk rock bands have been subjected to the same, faceless formula for success and commercialisation by record labels quick to pick up on the trend.

As it turns out, none of The Hunger Artists’ three members have ever read the novella after which their band is named. Grinning sheepishly over a menu, Calum Hood, the band’s chief lyricist, vocalist and bassist, admits finally settling on the name—suggested by his older sister—because ‘it sounded pretty cool and all our other ideas were shit.’ Fair enough.

Hood is the first to arrive in the otherwise empty hotel restaurant. We arranged to meet at ten o’clock, but now closer to twelve, Hood suggests we order lunch. Where are the others? “Michael had a pretty rough night last night,” he says, beginning to roll a cigarette. And Irwin? Hood smiles. “Fighting with Yoko fucking Ono.” Presumably he is referring to Irwin’s partner Luke Hemmings. Before the beginning of their tour, neighbours alerted the police following a heated argument between the two. Both men were arrested, but neither was charged.

Ashton Irwin, the band’s drummer, arrives not much later, just in time to politely ask the waiter for a black coffee. He looks tired but remains loquacious and amicable.  If things aren’t all rosy in his garden, he’s very good at not letting it show.  

With starling accuracy, Irwin recounts the band’s first trip to Belgium. It was three years ago, shortly after the release of their self-titled EP, and Clifford had spontaneously signed them up to support Bavarian thrash metal band Murder Inc across Europe. As the story goes, MI frontman Andreas Finkenzeller came across The Hunger Artists’ EP while vacationing in Sydney, and conscious of their upcoming tour, contacted Clifford, who accepted his offer of supporting the Germans despite the musical differences. Six weeks later Clifford, Hood and Irwin found themselves in Nuremberg, playing in front of three hundred rowdy metal heads. “I thought they were going to kill us—or worse, boo!” Hood jokes, seconds after exhaling a cloud of smoke. Irwin is a little more serious. “Those guys did a lot for us. Sure, their fans didn’t really like us, but they showed themselves to be above all this petty, tribal scene bullshit that’s going on right now. Being where we’re from, we never knew that sort of clan mentality between bands even existed. When we rocked up at Lollapalooza the year after, we were like, ‘What the fuck is going on? Why isn’t everyone just chilling out together?’”

“But yeah,” Hood interjects before Irwin strays too far. “I remember being in Belgium when I heard _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ on the radio for the first time. We were just chilling in this squat for a few days between tour dates when it came on. Me and Ash looked at each other and said, ‘This is fucking awesome!’” Irwin nods in agreement. “It felt so good finally hearing something we could connect with. It gave us the kick we needed to keep going.” The boys would go on to buy a copy of _Nevermind_ when they get to Den Haag upon Hood’s insistence and play it on repeat until the tour was over.

Naturally the death of Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain earlier this year affected millions far and wide, and THA are no exception. “I was fucking devastated,” remembers Hood, and it’s evident in his voice that it’s true. He cites Cobain has his lyrical inspiration. “People like that—you forget that they’re human, that they feel sad. I just sat up all night and thought about all those songs that are never going to be written, all that genius he took to the grave with him.”

Every cloud has a silver lining, though. “After we heard what happened, we sat down and asked each other if we were alright,” Irwin says, “and that’s when Mikey told us, no, he wasn’t alright.”

Michael Clifford, the band’s vocalist, guitarist and de facto frontman, is still MIA by this point. He’s an interesting character, often sporting eccentrically dyed hair and a pierced eyebrow. One moment he is very outgoing and funny and charming, the next he is moody and uncommunicative, preferring the company of his Sega Mega Drive. He is also the most aesthetically punk rock of them all, but the beauty is skin deep, according to Hood. “Mikey gets it. He gets how people are feeling. Our fans, especially the younger ones, really see him as someone they can connect with. I put the lyrics down on the page, but he’s the one that brings them to life.” Hood looks around, checking that his best-friend of fifteen years is not around. “I love the guy, man. It fucked me up knowing I hadn’t realised how fucking depressed he was.”

Shortly before the release of the band’s third album, _Mausoleum_ , Clifford checked himself into a psychiatric hospital in the band’s native Sydney, missing out on some of the promotional work for the album and forcing the band to postpone their upcoming tour. Irwin says this wasn’t an issue. “What was important at the time was Mikey getting his head sorted.”

Not that Hood and Irwin needed to do much promotion. After the success of standalone single _Let’s Run with Tigers_ in late 1992, originally discarded from the band’s second album _ShakeShakeQuiver_ , the world had been eagerly anticipating their next release. For the first time in their short careers THA were caught in a weird squeeze between their freakish good fortune and the accelerated expectations generated by it. The pressure of their success to date has revealed glaring cracks in their ability to deal with it. Indecision and self-doubt prolonged the recording process by a whole month. “It was awful,” Irwin recalls, sipping on his coffee. “I wanted to call it quits more than once. We all did.”

Regardless, what The Hunger Artists produced was a rabid, ingenious paraphrasing of echoes and kitsch from rock’s golden age of pomposity. Psychedelic guitars and punk sneers boost the proudly pretentious belief in rock music as an art form, while tracks such as _Warped_ pay homage to the genre they look to be leaving behind. Is this intentional? “We didn’t limit ourselves creatively this time around, which I suppose added to the apprehension. We knew some people wouldn’t like it, but we couldn’t think about them. This album, first and foremost, was about us,” explains Irwin.

As he speaks, the surprisingly bright figure of Michael Clifford appears. Only three weeks ago, the band had to abandon stage when Clifford, seemingly out of nowhere, froze and walked off during a live television performance on a British chat show. Irwin, irate, followed him off stage and a few choice words were said between the two, per reports. Hood, stood alone with only his bass for company, was left to save face. If any tension remains between Irwin and Clifford, they don’t let it show.

Hood fills Clifford in on the conversation, who nods and steals food from the bassist’s plate. “I actually get to play guitar solos now,” Clifford beams. “Like a real fucking rockstar.” Clifford’s child-like enthusiasm is endearing even to the bitterest of souls, and not for a moment do you doubt him when he says he wanted to be a rockstar primarily to make a lot of noise. Indeed, drugs, sex and alcohol don’t seem to be on the minds of any of these boys, though that doesn’t mean they haven’t indulged on the odd occasion.

Unfortunately, the band’s tour manager—the first they’ve ever had—scurries into the restaurant very soon after Clifford’s arrival, reminding the band that they’ve got a soundcheck in under an hour. Clifford apologises for his brief appearance, but promises to air dirty secrets when we meet again before the show.

A couple of hours later and the band is backstage at the Vooruit, a charming venue in the historically socialist area of the city; Hood and Clifford strum guitars side by side, making up a song about pizza, while Irwin can be heard on the phone out in the hall, talking heatedly to someone on the other end. More trouble in paradise? “We probably shouldn’t say,” Hood says. “His boyfriend’s a fucking junkie,” Clifford says, undeterred, but his tone soon softens. “It’s fucking ugly, man. Fucking toxic.” When Irwin eventually returns, he looks wounded, exasperated. Clifford and Hood say nothing.

Despite the mostly new set, the whole show runs high with feeling. Almost 900 young people cram themselves into the floor designed for 100 less, and Clifford, despite his flakiness, has them all eating out the palm of his hand. Gone is the chaos of their earlier stage performances, replaced by a more conscious effort to play their instruments. But that is not to say THA have tamed their audience. In fact, Clifford encourages their fans to come up onto the stage and dive off. “Just don’t blame us if those other fuckers down there don’t catch you,” Hood adds cheekily into the microphone between sips of water. There will be some disheartened by the dramatic change in THA’s live show, but the band insists it’s for the best. “We were always hurting ourselves, breaking our instruments,” Clifford explains before the show. “Last year I got this fucking cool-arse custom Gibson guitar—no fucking way am I smashing it.” It seems, in every possible way, THA have become more mindful of their craft.

And yet, sub-textually, the tour also refers to the death of something deeper than just their grunge-by-numbers approach to music—young guitar bands ruling the mainstream with a rough style that for a time entranced the world. There is already a growing nostalgia surrounding the movement that has barely reached its adolescence. Instead of trying to stoke it, The Hunger Artists seem content to move on to a different cycle. “You can’t keep doing the same thing, making the same music,” Hood says, lighting up another cigarette. “Obviously, we’ll never change entirely, but it’s like evolution and all that shit. You have to adapt. People like Cobain, [Andrew] Wood, they could inspire more people, but that’s not what we want to do. We don’t want that. That’s too much fucking pressure. That’s why neither of them are still here.”

With their new album, The Hunger Artists may have triumphed artistically, but they haven't had much time to celebrate. They're too concerned with their respective demons and what force may next threaten their existence. The more records that The Hunger Artists sell, the less they understand everything around them. "Fuck, none of us have any idea what we’re doing," admits Irwin. "The way I see it, the only way to find out what's going on in life is to go through it full force with your head down and to smack into a few walls on the way. Then, hopefully after a while, you figure out which ones don’t hurt you so much.” Irwin pauses, twirling a single drumstick between his fingers. “I guess the same goes for people, too.”

 

* * *

 

Luke’s not angry—he’s fucking _incensed_. So fucking incensed that, just as he’s about the launch the magazine across the room, he stops himself, tears the front cover down the middle, careful to rip right through Ashton’s face. Still not satisfied, he tears out the pages about that stupid fucking band and destroys them until their words are nothing more than confetti across his cluttered carpet.

It’s not enough, though.

There’s a fire prickling under his skin, flowing through his bloodstream, licking up the walls of his lungs. It burns. It burns and he can’t fucking breathe. He falls to his hands and knees—like a fucking whore, he thinks—and begins to crawl towards the familiar messy pile of cassettes and CDs. CDs are in now, and cassettes are old news, but Luke finds them much easier to destroy. He grabs their album, the newest one, rips the little disc from its case and snaps it between his hands. It’s satisfying, sure, but not as much as it is to pull the tape from the cassette Ashton first fucked him to.

“Fucking shitty music anyway!” he shouts at no one in particular.

Chest still heaving with rage, he staggers to his feet towards his—because it’s not fucking Ashton’s, goddammit—wardrobe. It’s a flimsy piece of shit that they bought together and spent an entire day trying to assemble, giggling over the funny pictures in the instructions manual and misplacing all the little pieces. The memory makes something in Luke’s chest lurch, and he yanks open the doors on impulse, pausing briefly to stare inside. He wants, in theory, to throw all of Ashton’s shit out, but everything is mixed together, and Luke can’t fucking tell what’s his and what’s Ashton’s anymore.

There’s something inside of him, something building slowly, gaining momentum, and he’s afraid of it, ridiculously so, because it’s not anger. The anger has passed, replaced by something much, much worse, so he distracts himself. Sweaters and leather jackets and ripped jeans land on the ground as he grabs for them, some of them Ashton’s and some of them not, and he doesn’t stop when his hand catches on the jagged end of a broken hanger, smearing blood across his palm.

He’s so hysterical, so out of it, he doesn’t feel the hot tears slipping down his cheeks, nor does he hear Ashton come in the room, alarmed by the commotion. By the time Ashton stops him, grabs him by the arms and physically hauls him away from the wrecked wardrobe, Luke’s panting, his eyes wild, out of control.

“Fucking stop it, Luke!” Ashton yells, fighting Luke like a parent and a stubborn child, until Luke’s pressed up against the wall. He leans in close to the taller boy. “Stop it. Stop it now.”

“Fuck you!” There’s hysteria in his voice, Luke can hear it, but he can’t stop himself. “I fucking hate you!” He thrashes around a little more, intent on escaping Ashton’s grasp, but he gives up with a shaky exhale, a soft sound much like a whimper. He leans into the bruising grip on his biceps, hating himself for it.

Perhaps—perhaps if Ashton loved Luke any less, he would leave. He would let go of him, let him slip to the floor and leave him in the carnage he’s created. He would grab his clothes off the floor, stuff them into the suitcase he’s just brought from the airport and walk out the front door without looking back. He would stay with Calum, his mother, anyone, just to get away from Luke. He would be happier, healthier, calmer. He wouldn’t have to deal with anymore of this bullshit ever again.

But he _can’t_.

He can’t just leave Luke. He can’t pack his things and walk out the door. No, no, that’s not possible anymore because they’re _in love_ , remember? He’s fucking anchored himself down to a sinking ship and there’s no lifeboats in sight.

They stay like that for a while; Ashton pressing Luke against the wall, letting his anger simmer down to anguished sobs. It’s brutal, absolutely fucking soul destroying to listen to, but Ashton keeps still, keeps composed. He kisses Luke’s bare shoulder, ignoring the thin layer of sweat from Luke’s back dampening the front of his t-shirt. Only when Luke begins to cough through his sobs does Ashton move his arms from Luke’s biceps to slip around his torso, properly holding onto him now. He shushes him, tells him everything is going to be okay.

Slowly, unsteadily, Luke turns around in his arms. He’s slouching, face angled down towards Ashton, red-rimmed blue eyes staring all the way through Ashton, right into his own personal Hell. It’s unsettling, Ashton thinks, how Luke’s eyes haven’t changed. If he focuses hard enough, ignoring everything else around them, he could convince himself that nothing had changed. He could go back to all the good nights, all the fun nights, and relive them again drenched in the blue of Luke’s eyes. He could do it so fucking easily but—

A pair of hands pushing on Ashton’s chest sends him stumbling backwards. It’s not a particularly harsh shove, but Ashton isn’t expecting it, and almost trips up over a pair of jeans lying on the floor. He readies himself for another wave of anger, but instead of glaring at him, armed with a barrage of insults, Luke has his hands covering his face, half moaning, half yelling into them.

He’s out of his fucking mind.

“Babe,” Ashton tries. “Sweetheart.”

Luke pulls his hands away, stares at Ashton for a moment before moving around the room hurriedly, grabbing clothes and pulling them on. “I gotta go,” he keeps saying. “I need to—I need to go, Ash, I need to go,” he says, breathless, grabbing his wallet from the bedside table and shoving it into his back pocket.

Ashton should stop him—it’s not safe for anyone to have Luke going out in this state—but he doesn’t. He lets him move around the room unopposed, picking up a lighter from among the empty carcasses of cassette tapes. He continues muttering to himself as he goes, no longer intelligible, but sounding more and more distressed. Ashton should stop him, but he knows better than that.

Instead, listening to the front door open and slam shut, Ashton drops gently down onto the mattress. He sits on the edge, knees coming up to rest below his chin, eyes examining the little pieces of magazine on the carpet. He reaches out, gathers a handful and drops them again, watching them flutter back down and wondering how, after months away, Luke hadn’t told him that he loved him, that he missed him. He knows why—of course he does—but that doesn’t mean that it’s easy to admit to himself. It’s the hardest thing in the world to admit you don’t mean shit compared to a methamphetamine high.

Stretching out a little further, Ashton carefully picks up the two jagged bits of CD from the floor. He sighs at his distorted reflection in the back of one of the pieces before fitting them together. It’s an artificial fix, and the crack is still evident, tiny fragments missing between each side. It’s not fixed. It’ll never be fixed.


	4. 1995

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this part was...tough to write.

“This is the last time,” Luke says, cupping Ashton’s face in his hands.

Ashton nods, because he’s an idiot, and leans forward, kisses Luke’s dry lips with a gentleness he’d been beginning to think he’d forgotten. Luke is a little rougher, always has been, in his reciprocation, pushing against Ashton, his sweaty palms slipping from his face to the back of his head, twisting in Ashton’s hair. Ashton moans, hands moving up to rest flat on Luke’s chest. It's painful, fucking physically painful to push him away, even an inch, but he wants this over and done with.

Luke’s less embarrassed about it than he used to be. Ashton’s not entirely sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but at least he knows where Luke is most of the time, ever since he’s started shooting up at home, instead of fretting over the idea that he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. He reasons, calmly, that witnessing the high and ignoring the crashing low is nothing in comparison to the fear and anxiety before. It’s completely fucked and he knows it, but it’s something. It’s something to hold on to when he’s this close to snapping.

Ashton sits back on his heels, right in front of Luke, and snatches a can of beer from his side. He’ll need it. He’ll definitely fucking need it. He could do with something a little stronger, too, but he quickly rules that to be a dumb fucking idea. He focuses entirely on the beer as Luke moves around in his obscured vision, muttering to himself as Ashton hears the ever-familiar clink of needle against glass.

Ashton’s never taken anything that requires such intricate preparation as meth, he thinks, watching Luke break open a cigarette and carefully removing the sponge-like filter. He sets it aside, picks up a small sachet and empties the powdery contents onto an awaiting spoon, pausing momentarily to suck off the white residue from his fingertips. His eyes flick up towards Ashton as he grabs the needle from the small glass of water beside him, partly filling it, and then adding the water onto the spoon. As the powder dissolves, Luke disposes of the first syringe into a jar full of them and grabs another from the floor, tearing it from its packaging.

Ashton can’t stop watching. It’s sick, and he knows it’s fucking sick, but he can’t tear his eyes away. It’s like watching a performance, a mesmerising dance.  

“You can fuck me after this, if you want,” Luke says, pulling Ashton from his trance. He speaks so casually, not even looking at Ashton, eyes focused on dropping the cigarette filter into the liquid on the spoon.

Of course he wants to fuck Luke. He’s never stopped wanting to. His body is a filthy fucking traitor to his mind and he can’t help it. It’s an obscene idea—Luke is obscene. He bites down on his lip, watching Luke pull back the plunger to fill up the barrel an inch and subconsciously presses the heel of his palm to his groin. _Filthy fucking traitor!_  

After quickly wiping the crook of his arm with an antiseptic wipe, Luke grabs a belt—Ashton’s pretty sure that it’s his—from the floor and tightens it around his bicep, holding the end between his teeth. Ashton watches, fascinated, as the veins in Luke’s arms become clearer, more prominent. Then, with a steady hand, he takes the syringe, brings it to his arm and—

“Do you really promise?” Ashton asks quickly. “That’s you off it after this?”

Luke smiles, letting the end of the belt drop from his mouth. There’s something oddly warm in his eyes, a sincerity unbeknown to Ashton. “I promise,” he says and leans over to kiss Ashton again. “As long as I have you to help me.”

“I’ll be here,” Ashton promises in return, then sits back, letting Luke get on with it once again.

From the moment Luke injects the liquid into his veins, his face softens, his eyelids flutter shut and his mouth falls open in that cute way Ashton loves. He looks so blissful, so peaceful, and Ashton supposes, as moronic as he thinks Luke is for putting that shit in his veins, there is a reason he does it—he wouldn’t do it if it didn’t feel good. He’s fucking stupid, but he’s not _that_ fucking stupid. In fact, at least intellectually, he’s pretty damn smart. It’s just a shame he’s let it all go to waste.

“Fuck,” Luke breathes, and it’s only been a couple of minutes. He eases the needle out of his arm, drops it into the same jar as before, and lets the belt slip off his arm. “Fuck, Ash,” he says, eyes slightly screwed but a smile breaking out onto his face, arms reaching out for the older boy. “Come on,” he says, getting to his feet awkwardly, pulling Ashton up along with him.

“Take off your shirt,” is the first thing Luke says after he’s dragged Ashton all the way to their room and manhandled him down onto the mattress. He stays on his feet, however, and Ashton is left looking up at him, propped up on his elbows.

“Why don’t—”

“Shut up.”

And Ashton does it, taunting and tempestuous, but Luke is unruffled. With a sly, detached smile waltzing across his face, Luke slowly undoes his own jeans and just watches. Just watches. And Ashton has never been so turned on.

In a lustful haze, Ashton will lose this interim between the beginning of their disrobing and the end, and he remembers only the sudden jolt of Luke hurtling toward him like a comet. He’s heavy on top of him, as broad and beautiful as ever, pinning him down to the week-old sheets. His tongue is in his mouth and his hands are in his hair and Ashton fucking loves it even though he should be running a mile. Everything could change in a second. He knows that—he fucking _knows_ that—but the temptation is too great, and for a while Ashton can ignore the red marks littering Luke’s arms, scratched into his skin when it began to crawl, and the chemicals inside causing his heart to thunder.

He ends up between Luke’s legs, slipping a slick finger inside of Luke. He’s doing as he’s told, and Ashton would be lying if this doesn’t make something stir in his stomach. Granted, the circumstances aren’t ideal, but he’d kill for some positivity these days so he lets the thought settle nicely at the back of his head, close to where Luke is currently tightening his grip on Ashton’s hair again, pulling him up a little, demanding his mouth on his cock.

Ashton is more enthusiasm than technique, kissing and licking at Luke sloppily, undeterred by his slow progress. Every so often he pulls off completely, turns his attention to the fleshy inner part of Luke’s thighs and sucks on the supple skin. He loves Luke’s thighs. He loves Luke’s legs. He loves Luke.

“Fuck me,” Luke demands through gritted teeth.

Luke’s chemical-induced bravado falls for a moment as he squirms, suddenly empty, and Ashton reaches for the lube between the sheets, pushing Luke’s legs further apart. Luke looks away and bites his lip to keep himself from saying something stupid but the usual stream of expletives comes out anyway when Ashton pulls his long legs around his waist and positions himself with no regard whatsoever to Luke’s aching erection now straining against his flat stomach. His casual disdain is strangely thrilling; this false selfishness sends a jolt up Luke’s spine then down again as he braces himself, overcome by blindness and obscurity and nothing but shock as he slowly pushes into him, drives in, pressing slick hands into his waist. He doesn’t wait and Luke doesn’t want him to, it seems, because the hiss and the expletives tumbling from Luke’s mouth are quite like Ashton’s.

“Surely you can do better than that.” He says this breathy and thick, and Ashton hears it with his face buried in the damp juncture between the younger man’s neck and his broad shoulder. This is him, regaining control. “Fuck me harder, Ash. Come on, I know you can— _fuck_ —do better than that.”

And by God, he tries. He sets his hands at Luke’s pinched waist, thin and sallow, and he’s on top. And though he forces Luke’s legs apart and digs his fingers in, the clutching press of Luke’s ankles against his lower back and the satisfactorily hard pressure of Luke’s cock against constricting abs are just about on par with the way it feels when he pushes into him again and again.

He’s fucking him now, he is, and he’s doing it hard, but even being Ashton fucking Irwin, he can tell how it’s happening and he revels in the knowledge that Luke is in the driver’s seat tonight—and he’s about to fucking crash.

Then Luke’s hands are on Ashton’s shoulders and he’s telling him no, this isn’t working, stop, he has to fuck himself. It should be humiliating, and maybe it is, but all Ashton can think about is sitting back against the wall, Luke moving up and down on his cock. Luke sits up on his knees a bit, hand tight around his own cock, jerking slowly, and watches Ashton get comfortable, placing a pillow between the wall and his back.

It’s a pretty sight, all in all—one Ashton wishes he could capture and keep for himself forever. He probably will anyway, he supposes, no matter how badly this ends, how many lovers he’ll have in the future. Luke’s special, he always will be, and Ashton doubts very much that the crescent-shaped imprints left by Luke’s nails on his thighs will ever fade in time to let him forget it.

“You like that, Ash?” Luke taunts, grinding down on Ashton’s cock.

Like it? He fucking loves it. Loves it so much he can feel a familiar heat pool in his stomach. He tries to hold it off, tries to fight it, but Luke just keeps on moving, hands running over every inch of Ashton’s abdomen, sliding up to gently tug at the hair on the centre of his chest. Ashton moans at the sharp pain, thrusting up unexpectedly, causing Luke’s breath to hitch and his balance to falter.

“Jesus, Luke, I’m—”

“Do it. Fucking _do it_.”

Luke stills when Ashton comes inside of him, like he’s waiting for it to push him over the edge, too. It doesn’t, though, and Luke whines even louder as he jerks himself off, beginning to move on Ashton’s cock again. Luke frowns as Ashton grimaces, hands coming to rest on Luke’s arse, forcing him to stop. And Luke—Luke might be off his fucking face, but he’s not an asshole, so he lifts himself off, lands heavy on his back beside Ashton.

He stays there, lying on his back, eyes screwed shut, hand moving in the same, repeated motion over and over again. He’s whimpering and whining, whole face beginning to scrunch up. When he eventually gets out something intelligible, it’s a high, stressed, _help me_ in Ashton’s direction. Aware that he’s just been sitting there like a dumbarse, he moves to do exactly that, reaches around Luke’s slightly raised leg to drag his fingers up the back of Luke’s sticky thighs to his cock. He moves Luke’s own hand out of the way, but does his best to mimic its motions.

He wants to fuck Luke again, give him what he thinks he needs, but he can’t. Fuck, he’s so tired, so sated, so spent.

“Think about how fast I’ll make you come when you’re clean,” Ashton tries, shifting to press his lips to Luke’s chest, but he only makes himself cringe.

Luke, desperate and skin alight, almost itchy with the heat, lets out a broken sob as he loses it, goes limp in Ashton’s hand. Ashton almost recoils on reflex, his pride wounded despite knowing full well that it’s not his fault. He leans up a little further, pushes the damp curls up and kisses the burning skin of Luke’s forehead. There’s absolutely nothing like your partner not getting off during sex to completely fucking ruin the entire experience. Ashton almost feels guilty. He shouldn’t, but when has logic ever really applied to this train wreck?

Luke gets up before Ashton can keep him down, muttering something to himself. He’s still buzzing, full of energy. Ashton leaves him to it, just like he normally does, and pulls a sheet over his head, trying to block out the sound of Luke doing God only knows what in the living room.

Almost without exception, Ashton will watch Luke sleep in the morning, not long after he’s stumbled into bed, and his fingers will languish over blemishes and sweat-damp hair and wrists so slender they look as though they might snap. His pale fingers are curled over the hem of the thin sheet, and when he shivers, Ashton will draw the cover up around his shoulders and run his thumb over the stubble-dotted line of his jaw and think,  _I can’t wait for things to go back to the way they were._

Ashton’s morning is busy.

First, he gets rid of all the drug shit lying around the place. He feels shitty going through Luke’s stuff while he’s asleep, but he—they are going to do it properly this time. Well, as properly as they can without professional help. Ashton knows that’s the safer, likely more successful option, but there’s no way on earth Luke will get help like that. It was hard enough getting him to admit that he might have the slightest bit of a problem, and Ashton isn’t about to push his luck by sending him away to rehab—at least that’s what he likes to tell himself.

Shopping is next. According to some leaflet he’s managed to pinch from the local clinic, meth addicts eat a lot during their withdrawal. This isn’t too much of a problem, because Luke, until very recently, has always eaten quite a lot. Ashton used to love sharing ice-cream and cake with him, leaving sugary-sweet and sticky kisses on each other afterwards. He smiles at the memory, prowling the supermarket for food that won’t be too harsh on Luke’s stomach. He buys a lot of soup.

Last is a trip to Kings Cross.

Ashton is no fucking angel, he knows exactly where to get drugs and who to ask. He ends up wedging himself into a phone box and calling some dude that used to sell him and the boys green when they were first starting out, asking him if he has any Valium. He does, thankfully, and Ashton waits for him at the end of Darlinghurst Road. He knows this is fucking stupid, and this arsehole could be giving him anything, but he’s fucking promised himself that he’ll do anything to keep Luke’s suffering to a minimum. He’s going to be tough, unrelenting under Luke’s pleas, but he’s not going to make him suffer.

For the most part, the first day is fine. Luke sleeps most of the day, awakening with a sore head and a sore arse, but remains largely placid for the hours that he sits awake, watching the television that Ashton has heaved into their bedroom. Ashton, true to his word, stays with him, lying in his arms for a little while as he flicks through the channels.

He's low on the second day, but who can blame him? Ashton’s getting fucking depressed just watching the news, never mind kicking a fucking addiction. It’s just bombs going off around the world, hospitals burning to the ground in Sarajevo. Ashton’s almost fucking thankful for the cheesy, midday gameshows that brighten up his day before pissing him off again. Luke’s not all that bothered by any of it, sitting quietly beside Ashton as he nibbles on crackers slathered in jam and popping Valium interminably, which probably isn’t really helping, but Ashton says nothing.

Day three is when things start to go to shit. The depression is really kicking in, almost rendering Luke physically unable to get out of bed. He has to, though, so Ashton coaxes him out of bed and into the bath slowly. Luke sits on the counter as Ashton lets the water run, picking incessantly at a scab on the back of his hand. It’ll scar over if he doesn’t stop, Ashton warns him, helping him inside the tub when it’s ready, but Luke ignores him, continues to pick at it until it bleeds.

He just sits there for a while, knees to his chest, chin resting between them. Only when the water gets cold and he begins to shiver does Luke look over at Ashton, resting his elbows up on the edge of the tub and just staring at Luke, and ask, “Will you help me?”

“Of course, babe,” Ashton says softly, smiling. It’s the first acknowledgement he’s gotten all day.  

That night, though—that night is pretty bad.

Ashton wakes up to the sound of Luke retching into the plastic basin by the side of the mattress, stripped down to his boxers, a sweat-soaked t-shirt crumpled up beside him. The sweat’s still lashing off him as Ashton practically jumps to his side, pulling up the hem of his own t-shirt to wipe across Luke’s forehead. “You’re alright, babe. You’re alright,” he keeps saying, rubbing circles into his damp back, ignoring Luke’s hurried, jumbled, _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do it._ “You can, babe. Stay there, I’ll get you some water,” Ashton tells him, though he doesn’t really want to leave his side.

When he returns, not a minute later, Luke is lying back, half on the mattress, shivering so hard Ashton thinks he’s convulsing. “Ashton,” he moans, clinging tightly to the older boy as he tries to sit him up and press the glass of water to his lips. He eventually takes it in shaking hands as Ashton drapes a spare blanket around him, pressing small, comforting kisses to his temple.

He’s in a terrible mood the next day, fussing like a teenager over every little thing, having not slept a wink the night before. Ashton doesn’t sleep either, so he’s equally as irritable, choosing to spend much of the day drinking beer alone in the living-room, writing down lyrics in a notepad they’ll probably never use. He gets some decent stuff down—real stuff, not concocted from his imagination like normal. It probably doesn’t fit with the concept idea Calum is constantly updating them on—because Calum thinks he’s Roger fucking Waters and they’re Pink bloody Floyd, apparently—but Ashton doesn’t really care. It’s not like they—a shitty little band from Sydney—could pull off something like that. No fucking way.

The body aches come on the fifth day, and it’s almost too hard for Ashton to watch.

Luke is moaning, crying, screaming, his hands clutching at an invisible tormentor. His arms and legs feel like they’re being ripped from their sockets, and his stomach is cramping painfully without the promise of nausea. He writhes and he writhes and he writhes until he’s too tired to fight it, curling up into a shuddering ball, pulling at his hair to distract from the throbbing pain on the inside. Ashton wants to help, wants to make all the pain go away, but he can’t. He _can’t_. There’s absolutely nothing he can do.

Or, well, maybe there is.

“I can’t do it, Ash,” Luke cries, clawing at his arms. “Please—please, I can’t do it. I need it, Ash. I-I need it so b-bad.”

He’s full-on sobbing as he speaks, and for a moment Ashton thinks about cracking. All the pain would just go away, and they’d try again another time. Ashton looks at him, really fucking looks at him—pathetic, crying, begging—and stands up. No. He’s not going to give in. He’s not going to crack. He’s not going to let Luke crack. He shakes his head, whispering that he’s sorry, that he’s so fucking sorry, but he can’t do it. He loves him too much to let him give up now.  

“Fuck you!” Luke is shouting at him a moment later, throwing a lighter from where he’s sat in the corner of the room in Ashton’s direction. “You don’t fucking love me! If you really loved me, you’d get me a hit! You wouldn’t make me do this.”

And that—that’s the last fucking straw.

“If I really loved you?” he says slowly, walking towards Luke. “You think I don’t fucking love you? Jesus Christ, Luke, do you really think I’d be wasting my time here if I didn’t love you? Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t love you? Do you think I’m here for my own fucking enjoyment? Are you that fucking stupid? Huh?”

Luke cowers, yanking at his hair again, heels of his palms pressing down into his eyes. He’s mumbling something about it being too loud and too bright, his chest beginning to shudder. After all this time living in soft focus, the world must be pretty fucking terrifying.

“Fuck, Lukey,” Ashton sighs, easing himself down beside Luke. He places a hand on the small of Luke’s back, right where the material is beginning to darken with his sweat again. “We should enter you in a wet t-shirt competition,” Ashton jokes, running his hand up his back, stopping to squeeze the back of his neck gently. He pulls the taller boy into his chest, as close as he can get without snapping open his ribs and letting him hide behind his heart. He would do it, though—he would do it in a heartbeat if he asked. 


	5. 1996

**THE HUNGER ARTISTS: AN INTROSPECTION OF A NEAR-DEMISE**

_Ashton Irwin discusses The Hunger Artists emerging from the perils of superstardom with a new album full of tales from the edge._

Standing backstage of Sydney’s Metro Theatre, Ashton Irwin fiddles with a radio over which Tupac’s _I Ain’t Mad at Cha_ is playing for the third time this hour. “Funny how people listen to you more when you’re dead,” he says, eventually turning it off. Does he think he’ll be subjugated to the same tribute on the airwaves when his time comes? “Absolutely fucking not.”

It’s September 27, 1996, and The Hunger Artists are preparing to launch the world tour for their new album, _This Won’t Hurt a Bit_. They’ll begin touring Europe in late October, head off to North America next, then Asia, and back to Oceania. Assuming they don’t follow the pattern of their abortive 1995 tour, The Hunger Artists will play a total of eighty-nine shows over the next eight months. It’s a gruelling prospect for any musician, but for a band with a hand hovering shakily over the self-destruct button, it’s practically a suicide mission.

“I guess you could look at it like that,” Irwin says, reclining back on one of the couches circling a small table. He appears calm prior to the first of THA’s warm-up gigs, although this isn’t much of a surprise. As the oldest member of the band, Irwin exudes a calm energy beneath his cut-up clothes that ultimately dragged THA from his mother’s basement to the pubs and clubs of Sydney. “The other two just needed a little push in the right direction—and someone to keep them on track. Focus was a big problem.”

Of course, the fame that comes with success brings its own distractions and perils—and it’s not something any of the three members have ever coped particularly well with. “Suddenly there’s all this money, all these drugs, parties and girls, and it’s hard to deal with. It sounds stupid, but it is hard. Nobody can teach you about how you’re going to react to all of that, not in this industry.” Does the drummer have it easier? “I guess so—I guess I’ve had it a lot easier than Mikey and Cal, but not just because of that.”

While Irwin was never the focal point onstage, but he was the focal point off it. Though hired simply as the band’s drummer, he quickly seized the reins of the operation, becoming their de facto manager, booker and chief promoter. He distributed handmade publicity flier and designed the artwork for the band’s demo cassette, which he shilled to local record stores.

Irwin was, by all accounts, a tireless hustler. “Ash was constantly promoting that band, trying to make it into something,” says Sydney club promoter Ryan Cowan. Patrick Lennon, a veteran of the city’s ailing rock scene, recalls Irwin’s drive: “Most of the guys in garage bands are sitting around, waiting to be discovered, waiting for some record agent to knock on their door. Ashton didn’t take that attitude. He was constantly trying to put his band in some place where it could be seen. He genuinely believed those three could be the best band in the world.”

As of yet, both of Irwin’s bandmates have yet to be seen inside the dressing-room. Michael Clifford, Irwin assumes, is sleeping off the effects of a new dosage of medication, while Calum Hood is most likely staying clear of interaction. Irwin tells of a swing in the bassist’s mood as of late, but can’t offer up an explanation as to why. He has some theories, though. “Calum put his soul into this new album. He went to some dark places—we all did, but I think it came more of a shock to him. Finding out you have all this fear and rage and anguish inside—it fucks with your head. You feel like you don’t know who you are anymore.”

Indeed, so deep and merciless is the depths to which THA pull you down with this new album, it’s almost unlistenable; only our innate human interest in the morbid and macabre makes it bearable. Listening to this album is like watching each member pick open their wounds while bearing their souls at a therapy session. It’s devastating and uncomfortable, but Irwin insists it was the therapy that they needed after a tough couple of years. “We had to get it out. You can’t keep that shit inside you, festering. It’d eat you up and drive you fucking mental.” He pauses, eyes dropping to the floor. “One of us would probably be dead.”

One of the ever-present threats that hangs over The Hunger Artists and their management is that Clifford may leave the band. Asked in 1994 interview whether Clifford is tempted to run away, Hood said, “I think he thinks about it every day.” Irwin explains the importance of not pushing their guitarist too far, or he’ll just go away. “I didn’t want to coddle him at first, because I thought: _Fuck, where’s the dignity in that?_ Now I hear people talking about Mikey leaving like it’s an eventuality, but those people don’t know shit.”

Sonically the album resounds with a bleakly disorienting vibe. Throbbing bass underpins the entire album, from the opening notes of _Only the Brave_ through to the seemingly narcotics-inspired _Therapy?_ Fluorescent licks and soaring vocal harmonies go some way to distorting the heavy lyrical focus, creating a beautifully horrific and complex piece of art akin to Hieronymus Bosch painting.

A particular ceiling of anguish comes from the second last track on the album, _Existence_ , one of the few songs in THA’s catalogue accredited entirely to Irwin. Hood whines throughout: “Existence and pain are inseparable/Oblivion to life is preferable.” What’s it about? “Just life, I suppose,” Irwin answers, moving his arms behind the sofa. “Like how life’s shit but there’s nothing you can really do about it, and it’s okay to want everything to fucking end, because that you _do_ have control over.” Isn’t that message harmful to THA’s predominantly teenage and twentysomething audience? “I never thought about that when I wrote it. It’s not so much about encouraging it, more to remove the stigma and shame surrounding it.”

“You know, I read _A Hunger Artist_ not long ago,” Irwin begins, standing at the catering table before the gig, peeling the skin from an orange, “and there’s this part, right before he dies, when he’s talking to someone in the crowd. He goes: I wanted you to admire my fasting, and the person says they do, they do admire it. But then the hunger artist goes: You shouldn’t admire it, so they so they don’t admire it, but they don’t know why they shouldn’t. The hunger artist says it’s because he has to do it, he has to fast.” Is that how he feels about this new album? “Yeah, a bit. I don’t want everyone to enjoy me or my friends suffering, but I want everyone to know. I want everyone to say: Wow, what a badarse album, these guys are really honest and great at what they do.”

Irwin is momentarily distracted by the only other figure in the room; a tall, leggy blond curled up asleep shifts at the other end of the couch. His name is Luke Hemmings, and he has been with Irwin since the two met after a gig in 1992. The honeymoon period was brief, but Irwin insists after an extended separation and battling their collective demons, things are beginning to set themselves right again. Just to make sure, Hemmings will be coming on tour with the band. “I’m not letting him out of my sight,” Irwin explains, going over to grab a jacket from the chair and put it over his sleeping partner. “I made that mistake over and over again, convinced I needed a break from him, but that always just sent him back to square one. He was vulnerable and I left him. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

For all that Irwin is open about his sexuality, he has no plans to become a mouthpiece for the LGBT community. “People ask me: why don’t you ever talk about it? And the answer’s pretty simple; I’m a musician, not an activist. Just because you’re good at something and shag blokes doesn’t give you the right to stand on a soapbox and speak on the behalf of millions of people. I’m the drummer in a little rock band from west Sydney—who’d listen to me anyway?” Most of all, Irwin adds, “I just want to live my life as peacefully as possible now.” So if Elton John called him up to take part in an HIV/AIDS-awareness concert next week, would he do it? “No way, man,” Irwin says, “although I do love _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_.”

Trapped by his fame, the only place that Irwin seems truly content is onstage before hundreds of worshiping fans. Tonight’s crowd is small, free of low-level PR flacks, label suits, photographers and other industry hangers-on. It’s an ideal warm-up gig. “It’s always nice to play in Sydney. I don’t think there’s a venue in this city we haven’t played!” Irwin says, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “All the shitty ones, anyway,” Hood adds with a laugh, muscled, tattooed and sporting a new buzz cut. Seventies glam rock blares from the CD player across the room, a sure-fire way of getting the THA boys pumped and ready to play, according to Clifford. Even Hemmings, docile and quiet, plays an imaginary guitar from where he sits beside Irwin.

After a quick group huddle, The Hunger Artists take to the stage. There’s a problem with Hood’s amplifier but it’s quickly resolved. "Have you heard the new album?" Hood asks in his husky baritone in the meantime. The applause is overwhelming. "Well," Hood smiles, "get ready to hear it again." With that, The Hunger Artists edge into _Only the Brave_ , the fragile ballad that opens _This Won’t Hurt a Bit_. "We’re not coming back home this time," Clifford sings, pushing out the lyrics in a pained rasp. "We’ve had our chance/Not left our mark/And we’re not coming back.”

Understandably, it takes a while for both band and audience to get going. Famous for his flying leaps and swinging bass, Hood stands rooted to his spot in front of his microphone. Clifford tries a few flailing guitar-hero moves, but when his band mates fail to respond, he, too, sinks into a sullen torpor. His usual showmanship stays hidden away beneath all his studded denim. Irwin, who hasn’t bothered to remove his glasses for this gig, keeps a steady, if downbeat, pace. Despite this, musically, the crowd can have no complaints. Intended or not, the songs fill the small venue with enough energy that it barely registers that Hood is singing about the dangers of chronic loneliness.

For their persistence, the audience is gifted a selection of old favourites as the set draws to a close, and the moshing kicks off in the very centre of the floor. Even the band, so subdued, begin to play a little looser, and Clifford treats everyone, including himself, seemingly, to a guitar solo at the end of _Freak Show_. When he finishes, he turns to his bandmates for approval, receives it, and turns again to survey his kingdom. Maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

Ashton pauses briefly where he stands in the threshold of their bedroom, a strip of Anafranil in one hand, a glass of water in the other. “What’s not my fault, babe?” he asks, walking again and setting the contents in his hands on the nightstand.

Luke fidgets where he sits on the mattress, knees to his chest, magazine abandoned by his side. He looks incredibly small in just his boxers and hideous, oversized Coogi sweater, so Ashton crouches down before him, down to his level. Luke lifts his eyes then drops them, suddenly embarrassed. It’s not something he or Ashton like to talk about, but the guilt’s eating away at Luke’s chest, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look Ashton in the eye again if he’s causing him to blame himself for what Luke did.

“Hey,” Ashton says, reaching out, touching Luke’s stubbly cheek. “What’s up?” Ashton’s hand slides from Luke’s cheek to his forehead, checking his temperature. “You feeling alright?”

Luke wants to shove his hand away, hating being treated like a child, but he lets Ashton fuss, if only to make the other man feel better. Instead, he slowly lifts his own hand up, takes a hold of Ashton by the wrist and brings his hand down into his lap. They stay like this, in silence, for a little while, Luke playing with Ashton’s fingers, a little action that settles him down, makes him feel comfortable. He’s always loved Ashton’s large, calloused hands; loved kissing at the little bruises that littered them when he played too hard, sucking on his fingers to turn him on.

He doesn’t do that anymore.

“It’s not your fault,” he tries again, whispering. “It’s not your fault that I—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ashton hushes, moving to Luke’s side, wrapping his arms around him. He doesn’t want Luke getting worked up. When he gets worked up, he gets stressed, and when he gets stressed, it’s torture to try and get him to take his meds. “I know, I know,” he soothes, running his fingers through Luke’s hair. It’s shorter now, his curls gone, just long enough for Ashton to thread his fingers through.

Luke shifts in Ashton’s hold but doesn’t try to wriggle free. Instead, he turns into him, clings to the fabric of his t-shirt and hides in his neck, breathing heavy but steady. He’s not going to cry because he’s done more than enough of that, he reminds himself, blinking, one, two, three times to get rid of the tears. He shudders, quashing the sob threating to rattle through him.

Ashton rests his cheek on the top of Luke’s head. “I’m so proud of you, you know,” he begins—and it’s true, he is. He’s been there, watching Luke go from Hell and back again, but he’s never actually been there himself. He doesn’t know what it’s like, doesn’t even want to imagine what it’s like to have his skin crawl and his stomach hurt and his body burn and his eyes play tricks on him. He can’t imagine the hurt and the fear and the desperation going on inside Luke’s head for all those months, failing again and again and again, Ashton becoming tougher and tougher every time. “You’re doing so well.”

Ashton’s not a moron. He knows, deep down, Luke will always be an addict. It’s a fact, an unchangeable characteristic that’ll stay with him to the end—but now, with his bloodstream clean of poison, it’s time to get him addicted to something else. Something like gardening, hopefully.

“Hey,” Ashton says, giving Luke a little shake, “want to take your meds now? We’re off to the airport early tomorrow, remember.” His medication makes him very drowsy, and Ashton doesn’t really want to deal with that tomorrow morning.

Ashton unwraps himself from around Luke when the younger man nods, leans over and grabs the water and pills from the nightstand. He hands the water to Luke, who watches him pop two little pills out of the foil packaging. “Thanks,” he mumbles, taking them both quickly with two large gulps of water. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper, turns to the side, shows Ashton his empty mouth out of habit.

Ashton pats Luke’s bare thigh with a smile, takes the water from him and puts it back on the nightstand. “Bed time,” he says, scooting backwards.

Luke doesn’t move at first, just sits there, on the edge of the mattress, hands on them hem of his jumper. He thumbs the heavy, multi-coloured fabric before tugging it over his head, throwing it off to the side. On his bare arms are nicks, holes, a patch of scarred tissue from a nasty infection; they make Luke feel a little ill, but Ashton looks at him no differently. He looks over his shoulder, catches Ashton staring at him. “Can we cuddle?”

Ashton grins, nodding. “Always,” he says, reaching over to turn the lamp off.  

When Luke settles on top of Ashton, he shuts his eyes straight away, concentrates on the muscle beating steadily from within Ashton’s chest. It’s comforting, enough to lull him to sleep in record time, cocooned in Ashton’s arms. How fucking sappy, he scolds himself, but nuzzles further into his embrace. On those nights he spent alone, Ashton in another room or country, he always remembers missing Ashton’s body heat like an old friend, wishing and wanting it around him like nothing he’s ever craved before. A classic case of not knowing what you’ve got until it’s gone, he supposes.

“Can’t wait to show you the world,” Ashton mutters down at him, stroking his shoulders. “You’re going to love it, Lukey,” he continues. “New York, Paris, Cologne, Osaka…”

Luke lifts himself up, brings his face to Ashton’s. “I can’t wait either,” Luke whispers and Ashton swears to God he can see Luke’s eyes sparkling in the dark.

Ashton lifts his head up, managing to press a little kiss to the corner of Luke’s mouth. “I love you,” he says, hands rubbing up Luke’s sides.

It’s not scary to say it anymore, not a complete and utter fucking disaster. It’s just true, now. A fact. A simple statement that makes Luke’s stomach do somersaults. “Love you,” he says, smiling through bleary eyes. He lays back down on Ashton’s chest, kisses the first skin his lips find. “Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so short. i'm getting into the swing of writing this again. next chapter shouldn't take as long (lol) and will be pretty mashlum-centric which i'm excited about!!

**Author's Note:**

> come talk lashton to me on [tumblr](http://lindoluke.tumblr.com/) if you want?


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